Death of The Moon
Unbuttoning his
electric bow tie,
he stood staring
at the gray satellite,
religiously
reflecting light,
littered with
fallen stars-
It flickered
and went out.
Searching poetry
I give my waste to you,
aluminum receptacle
buried vertically
in dry wall.
I give my worst to you.
Home brewed coffee
in her commercial made mug.
She cried buckets
in her highlander grog,
over failing markets,
and the tetherball olympians
that would never be released
from the aching,
from the ruckus,
from the economic turnstile
that took no further tokens.
She would fuss and say,
"We'll all drive our own
electric bison
to our own muddy graves."
